She looked down at the churned bank, the wet boards, and the water going where it should not. “Yes, thank you, I had gathered that from the dirt.”
“You’ll ruin your gown.”
“This gown has survived smoke, geese, turnip duty, and Alyson with honey on both hands. I think it’s already made peace with its fate.”
“It’s cold.”
She scowled at him, crossing her arms. “I noticed.”
“You could wait in the mill.”
“I could also learn to embroider swans and speak politely about sheep. Neither seems likely.” She held out one hand. “Tell me where to brace.”
Thomas considered ordering her back. He also considered the long history of his success in ordering Amelia anywhere she hadn’t already decided to go.
“Here.”
She settled at once, hands firm around the damp wood, one knee in the mud, the other foot planted hard against the stone. “Like this?”
“Aye. Hold steady when I drive the wedge.”
“I’m an excellent holder of things.”
“I have noticed.”
She glanced at him. “Have you?”
The question was light. The air was not.
Thomas looked down at the wedge in his hand. It was a perfectly ordinary piece of wood, which was more than could be said for anything happening inside his chest.
“The post,” he said.
“Of course,” Amelia said. “The post.”
The miller, Godwin, joined them once he had roused himself from the mill room with a lantern, a mallet, and a wool cap pulled down to his bushy brows. He was a compact man of fifty with a beard gone white from both age and occupation, and he greeted the broken sluice with language that would have made Edith raise one interested eyebrow.
“God’s teeth and the devil’s own backside,” Godwin snarled, peering into the split timber. “Who set this peg? A blind goat with palsy?”
Amelia’s head came up.
Godwin froze, then cleared his throat so hard Thomas thought he might shake flour from his lungs. “Beg pardon, mistress.”
“I’ve heard much worse,” Amelia said, grin tugging at her mouth. “But that one had style.”
Godwin looked horrified.
Thomas didn’t tell him she’d also said worse, mostly under her breath and usually at Walter.
Godwin crouched and jabbed one thick finger toward the damaged board. “Christ’s bones, see there. The grain’s opened like an old widow’s purse, and the south cheek’s dropped half a finger.”
Amelia leaned closer. “That is…very specific.”
“Aye, and very ill-behaved.” Godwin reached for the mallet. “By Saint Dunstan’s tongs, I told Col last winter this gate had a wicked look to it.”
“Timber can have a wicked look?” Amelia asked.
“Everything can have a wicked look if it means to cost a man sleep.”